


supersymmetry

by demios



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ambiguous junk, DRK Questline Spoilers, Fluff, Other, Porn with Feelings, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 11:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15118880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: This is another compromise, they suppose.





	supersymmetry

**Author's Note:**

> “if hydaelyn bans me for wanting to bang an aetheric manifestation of my repressed feelings i will face the twelve and walk backwards into the seventh hell” - the warrior of light, seventh astral era
> 
> (i got nothin to say except that this is terribly self-indulgent)

_Soft._

That’s how they would describe everything around them. The sheets they have clutched between their fists, the faint scent of smoke from a recently extinguished lantern, the muted pleasure humming through their body – all of it brushes their senses like the tips of feathered wings.

Well, almost everything. Fray is here, and the Warrior of Light thinks they wouldn’t take too kindly being described as such. (“Like you’re impersonating a thoroughly shitefaced bard,” they’d say.)

Fray, who is remorselessly blunt and unbelievably crass yet oh-so _gentle_ when they’re alone together. The warrior finds it fascinating – Fray spills blood without a second thought, carves through flesh and bone with reckless abandon. It’s unexpected, perhaps, how those same hands are now slowly rubbing soothing patterns across their body. The way they’re handled with care is almost foreign each time, when the warrior’s heart constantly weathers the harshest of storms.

The warrior lies on their back, the last of their hempen underthings long discarded with the only thing keeping them warm the heat growing in the pit of their stomach. Their knees are nudged apart and Fray is there between them, unfortunately clothed, but still sliding one covered hand down the inside of the warrior’s thigh until it rests teasingly close to their most sensitive parts. The shoulder plates are removed along with a couple of the more cumbersome pieces, so the metal doesn't cut into their skin when Fray intends to wedge themselves between the warrior and the rest of this godsforsaken star.

They can’t see Fray - only feel them. Their form is hidden by the dark, save for their gaze of molten gold. Even with crystalline light in the warrior’s eyes, Fray is obscured, like a cloak of shadow between them no matter how close they get. The warrior knows it’s by Fray’s own design. They don’t _want_ to be seen.

That leaves the warrior always at Fray’s mercy, each touch and ghosting breath amplified by the lack of sight. They’ve become used to it – learned to anticipate it, even. The leather of Fray’s glove and soft lips that grace every ilm of their skin set them alight.

The warrior remembers reading about things like this – Meracydian folktales of gods making love to mortals under the cover of smothered candles and pale moonlight, because their union could never bathe in the light of day. Fray is no god but they are no demon, either, despite how they fight. The warrior welcomes them into their arms; they know the other would never hurt them.

For how could they, when they lean over the warrior’s trembling frame and leave a trail of fluttering kisses at their nape and down their spine? Or when they murmur praise into cooling skin as the warrior lies boneless in their grasp, stroking their hair until they fall asleep?

They way they’re treated is sweet, _saccharine_ , almost. Fray spoils them.

It’s made even more evident when Fray hitches their legs over their shoulders and puts their mouth on them without warning. Fray may not be a god, but the warrior feels _divine_. They give a pleasured gasp, feeling the metal of the other’s gauntlets rest on their thighs and give a light squeeze to hold them in place. Fray wastes no time; it’s hot and wet and the warrior nearly cries out when Fray does something _devious_ with their tongue. The pleasure is sharp, unbearably so, and the warrior can only succumb to it. And yet, when they look down to see only formless shadow, something is missing, _something…_

The darkness is an unspoken condition between them, that Fray only exists in the spaces between blinding light, where the abyss is deepest. That they give the warrior what they have to offer like a fever dream, leaving with the light of dawn. They are as intangible as the pitch they melt into, and the warrior squirms, wishing they could return the favor through their arousal-addled mind.

“Fray… _Fray,_ ” The warrior slides one leg off and paws against the other’s shoulders with unsteady hands. It’s not enough to actually force Fray off, but enough to make them stop, eyes burning in the dark when they flicker upwards to meet the warrior’s.

Fray removes their mouth and tongue with a sinful sound. They catch one of the warrior’s hands and brush their lips on the inside of the other’s wrist, the pulse underneath still racing. “Do you want me to stop?”

“It’s not that, I want…” The warrior takes in a gulp of air to gather their words. “Can I turn on the light?”

Fray hesitates and lets the other’s hand fall. They warrior can feel them bristle at the suggestion, because they know exactly what they’re implying.

“And why would you want that?” They ask carefully.

“Please,” They want to _see_ Fray, want to see the faces they’re making when the warrior is writhing in their hold, the ones they make when they make when they kiss healing wounds and old scars, the ones when the warrior catches their breathing turning more labored than their own.

Perhaps that one word enough to convey all of that, because Fray concedes – slowly. They disentangle themselves from the warrior, the haze waning from their senses. They are almost inclined to miss it, but they asked for this. The warrior sits up in the bed. The anticipation that shivers up their spine with the motion is different from before; instead of something primal and heavy, they feel a light giddiness spark through them. The warrior hears the click of the lantern beside the bed, and the figure before them comes into focus as light fills the room.

It’s less of a shock than one would think, to see your own face staring back at you.

This is not the first time they’ve seen their visage before them – that was stolen away by their tryst at Whitebrim – but it’s been a long while since then. The warrior supposes they simply didn’t want to appear as a doppelganger, that it would be odd when they held the appearance of someone else’s corpse for the better part of their relationship.

The warrior watches Fray’s hardened expression as they sit before them on the bed, entranced. The familiar features are like that of a different person’s. Fray is still Fray. Nothing has changed.

Fray is looking through them, clearly waiting for any sort of judgement. After a long moment of silence, they lower their gaze. They seem unused to the attention.

“What is it?” Irritation and uncertainty tinge their voice, their brow knitting together. They look like they’re debating on blowing out the lantern, or vanishing into thin air.

The warrior reaches out to cup their cheek. They only smile fondly as Fray stills at the gesture. “You wear it well.”

They can’t gauge Fray’s reaction because in that instant, they lunge forward and kiss them breathless. They’re nipping at the warrior’s bottom lip and demanding entrance, like they had said something inane again and Fray intends to steal it from their lungs. The warrior moans into their mouth, feeling lightheaded as the arousal from before returns.

“Stop gawking,” they growl quietly once they break apart, “There’s nothing new to see.”

But there is – it’s all new to the warrior, because it’s _Fray._

The other, however, seems more interested in finishing what they started, and takes the opportunity to push the warrior back onto the bed. The warrior lets them, butterflies forming a whirlwind in their stomach.

Fray knows what they need. They always do.

They sit back on their heels and unclasp the metal on their arms as the warrior watches from between their knees. The gauntlets are removed, leaving only their gloves. And normally they would stop there, but they slip off the leather while holding the tip of one finger between their teeth. The warrior is intrigued, eager. Fray’s hands have the same calluses as their own but they long to feel them on their body.

Fray’s fingers are light when they dance across their skin and the warrior shivers at every touch. They start at their chest, brushing their thumbs over hardened nipples before following with the graze of teeth. The warrior gasps, still watching them through the sudden pleasure, not missing the way the corner of Fray’s mouth curls up ever so slightly at their reactions.

Fray moves down their body, tracing scars with the pads of their fingers and skating nails across the marred skin. The warrior holds countless stories with their form alone, ones of battle, of accidents, of betrayal, of sacrifice.

Some are to be expected, like scars where their armor dug into their skin when they had gotten overzealous. Others are from skirmishes with monsters or any fool who dared to stand in their way – hastily sealed gashes from swords and spears, patchy burns from fire magic, a branching scar along their side from lightning spells. And others… others tug Fray’s features into a frown as they continue their tactile worship.

There are misshapen stars bursting along the warrior’s chest and abdomen where they’ve been gutted, impaled, and rotted from the inside out. Fray shows these the most consideration, because they shouldn’t be there. These are where the warrior’s good will becomes their undoing, where every petty promise becomes an unnecessary burden with immeasurable weight.

These are where the warrior has died, time and time again, because even if they don’t remember the fatal blow, the Echo remembers for them. Fray mourns them each time, for their death and inability to die. They’re mourning a little now, the warrior thinks, as they watch Fray press a kiss to each damning scar. The warrior has felt Fray do this before, but to see them with their eyes closed and a silent prayer on their lips makes their heart twist. When the other withdraws, they relish the way their skin is left tingling.

The warrior doesn’t have the words to express themselves, not that they were talkative in the first place. Instead, they climb into Fray’s lap so they straddle their thighs, feeling the cool material of their pauldroncoat and skirt brush against them. Fray’s gaze is fixed on them, unperturbed by the weight of the warrior’s hands pressing down on their shoulders for leverage.

They take the other’s face into their hands and pepper kisses across their nose and cheeks. _Thank you_ , is the unspoken sentiment. Fray flushes wonderfully at the unexpected gesture; the warrior can feel the rush of heat under their touch.

“You,” Fray quietly huffs as they let their eyes fall shut once more, “are _unfathomably_ terrible.”

The warrior only breathes a laugh, chest swelling with the knowledge that Fray is enjoying this, too.

Fray lets the warrior have their way for a short while, giving a content sigh every so often while staying otherwise still. When they’ve their fill of affection, they aim right for the warrior’s neck with a soft peck, which elicits an undignified noise of surprise – they’re _ticklish_ there, and Fray knows it.

Fray recovers too quickly for the warrior’s liking; their hands are on the warrior’s hips, holding them in place as they work down their neck and to their collarbones with their lips and the hint of teeth. But the attention is nice, comforting – they haven’t scared Fray off by pushing the boundaries of this strange, intimate thing between them. Fray pulls away and is gazing at the constellations on their body again. It makes the warrior curious – they wonder if Fray shares these scars as well.

“You’re not going to take the coat off?” They ask with a slightly lopsided smile, fully aware of how cheeky they sound.

“You ask for too much,” Fray retorts, deadpan. The warrior opens their mouth to refute the comment, but all that comes out is a gasp. Fray’s thigh grinds between their legs and the sudden pressure on sensitive flesh makes them forget how to speak.

At first it’s a comfortable sort of pleasure, like the kind that comes when they touch themselves. Fray eases them into it until the warrior is letting out muted sighs of appreciation. The movements are gentle but insistent; they press against the warrior and shift their weight methodically, giving them no reprieve from the growing heat. The warrior grinds back, moving their hips in a way that matches the rhythm of the other. They feel themselves becoming warmer, with quiet pants escaping them and filling the silence of the room.

It’s getting harder to focus on anything other than the hands skimming their sides and each wave pushing them closer to the edge – but they try anyways, drinking in Fray’s expressions as they balance themselves by resting their hands on their shoulders again. Fray is composed as ever, but the warrior notices the small ways they are also becoming undone. Their brow is furrowed in concentration and a touch of color sits high on their cheeks as they continue their ministrations. And, if the warrior hasn’t confused it for the sound of their own breathing, the way they exhale through their nose is slightly heavier than when they started this whole affair.

What’s most telling are Fray’s eyes. The mounting pleasure becomes akin to a tease as it drags on – the warrior is close, but it’s not _enough_. They want more, and they must have made a pathetic noise of some kind without realizing, because Fray’s gaze meets theirs and it seems brighter than the warrior can ever remember it being. And maybe that alone can push them over the edge, because those eyes are boring into them with an intensity that makes them shudder, and the warrior wants to keep them in their memory like another star among their collection. (And wouldn’t that be a sight, coming on Fray’s leg like a rutting animal.)

But Fray slows, and the warrior whines.

They only let out an amused snort as they adjust themselves, this time removing one hand from the warrior’s body and – _shamelessly_ sticking it between their legs without prelude. Not that the warrior is complaining, mind you. Fray is prodding, stroking around their entrance with dexterous fingers and all of it stokes their arousal even more than before. It’s a silent question, as they ghost over their flesh, if the warrior wants this tonight. The warrior rocks their hips in response; it had always been gloves, but now it’s bare skin. Fray’s hands had been impossibly warm on them the entire night – the warrior desperately wants that same warmth inside of them.

The fingers halt their light movements and rest over the warrior’s entrance, letting them know what’s to come. They feel the pressure of one finger and Fray presses until they’re inside. The warrior gasps when it breaches them, then moans. It nudges in deeper, opening them up slowly and letting them acclimate to the sensation. They take a moment to enjoy the uniqueness of being connected in this way; being this close, this _intimate_ with Fray feels exquisite.

The other pulls their digit out, then thrusts it back in again, generating more of that pleasant heat at the warrior’s core. They repeat the motion several times before adding a second finger, then a third. They enter without much resistance and the warrior takes them in greedily, practically burning up with the desire to feel Fray _inside_. Fray crooks their fingers and thrusts just the way they like, making them bite their lip and groan and shake.

Fray is fucking them on their fingers at a steady pace, but they don’t push. They let the warrior grind their hips and squirm as much as they please and simply take what they need, instead kissing and biting what is bared before them. Fray is at their shoulder, their neck, at the corner of their mouth, planting kisses and lightly grazing skin with each thrust. It’s not too much, not painful in the least – it’s pure bliss, and the warrior lets it drown them. At times they forget what it’s like to be handled gently, but Fray is always there to remind them.

The warrior breathes Fray’s name with each rock of their hips, because they don’t know what else to say when the other has left them bereft of any words that might have been in their orbit. Right now, they’re the only thing occupying their thoughts, their senses, their heart - and gods, their heart nearly hurts with how full it feels.

“Waxing poetic now, are we?” Fray’s brow is raised and a shite-eating smile graces the curve of their lips. If the warrior wasn’t preoccupied by chasing their climax, perhaps they would have had the sense to be at least a little sheepish.

“You’re beautiful.” The warrior sighs dazedly in response to the quip. And they are, the pale shadow of a dead knight and half-god and neither all at once. Fray holds every ugly feeling of theirs yet is so damn _beautiful_ in the muted light.

“Bullshite; you’re just saying that because I’ve got half my hand inside you.” They reply dryly. “And even if I didn't, that still makes you a narcissist.”

Fray is shying away again with vitriol on their palate, recoiling from the warrior who is bathed in radiant light when they are barely more than a shade. So the warrior leans forward and kisses them hard enough to bruise, to make Fray shut up and accept the fact that they’ve a vice on their heart, no matter what they may believe. Fray doesn’t say anything more after that, but the warrior doesn’t miss the way their hand squeezes their hip tighter and how their fingers push harder inside.

The warrior holds Fray tight in their arms, pressing their bodies together as much as they can through each thrust. Their heartbeat resounds in their ears, and in their fever, maybe they’re hearing Fray’s too, matching theirs from underneath the layers of armor and leather.

Their climax takes them by surprise. Throbbing, twitching, panting – they come writhing on Fray’s fingers and grinding against them, face buried in their neck and inhaling their scent. When they come down from their high, they feel lightheaded and utterly spent. Their thoughts are faraway at the moment, but they follow instinct and meet Fray’s lips with their own in a soft kiss, grounding themselves with the contact.

“Satisfied?” They ask as the warrior slumps against them, forehead pressed against their shoulder.

“Mm,” is the eloquent response from the warrior before they remember how to speak. “We should do it like that more often.” _You needn’t hide_ , is what they mean.

Fray busies themselves by pulling their fingers out of the warrior, drawing a quiet whine from the other. “I’ll think about it.”

A calm silence falls over the two of them, with Fray idly tracing circles at their hip where their hand had gripped them so harshly before. It’s tempting to simply fall asleep where they are, but something tugs at the warrior’s thoughts and they force themselves to stay awake to voice it. When a fraction of their strength returns, they pick their head up, staring straight at Fray’s face. _Their_ face.

“I mean it, you know. I want to see you.” Because they had already kept Fray hidden for so long beneath their mask, beneath the smothering weight of their denial. They want to end the last of this charade of light and dark – as much as they can, anyways. Fray’s eyes close, and they sigh.

“…If you insist.” They finally say. “We can consider this another compromise, of sorts. It’s not like you’ll stop until you get your way.”

The warrior is used to picking out the smug smile in Fray’s voice in the dark, but this time they have the privilege of seeing it in person, though it’s a little less smug and a little more sincere. They wear it differently than the warrior does, but it’s beautiful all the same.


End file.
